The Kingfisher Secret

by AnonYMous

  Elena listened to Sergei tell her all about her ex-husband’s business. The Craig customer and the Craig audience were the unsophisticated rich or those who felt they deserved to be rich but lacked the intelligence or motivation to do much about it. They were, in Sergei’s definition, white, resentful, disenfranchised, and indebted. They bought a Craig on credit, almost never with cash. Craigs were the most leased automobiles in history—because this was by far the cheapest way to get one. Default rates were extraordinarily high.

  “Our polling data show if he runs in 2016 he’ll have a rump of between twenty-five and thirty-five percent of the American electorate. If he has the courage to give them what they want. And I tell you, Elenka, it has nothing to do with luxury.”

  “What does it have to do with?”

  There was a knock on the door. Sergei stood up and so did she. Elena had been searched three times, and they had taken her phone away. With a grunt Sergei made it to his feet and to the door.

  Outside, there were between five and seven bodyguards, massive armed men with cropped hair and black suits laced with spandex. Aleksandr Mironov entered the luxury box in his hockey equipment and a pair of black oxfords. While Sergei had grown soft Mironov had become hard. He waited for Elena to walk across the box and to kiss him. “Our wonderful Kingfisher,” he said, to Sergei.

  Sergei applauded for a moment, ridiculously, Elena thought.

  “I love a Czech woman.” Mironov removed his elbow pads as Elena and Sergei returned to their seats. “I love Czech people. It’s funny, what you call your transfer of power, the Velvet Revolution. This is my kind of revolution. Not one agent, yours or ours, was put in jail let alone taken into some alley and shot. Good souls, the Czechs. Close to my heart.”

  Elena could not stand him. “You mean we’re subservient.”

  “I mean you do not let emotion get in the way of the right decision. I have seen far too many people ruin themselves unnecessarily for an empty principle. You Czechs are too thoughtful for that.”

  Elena did not want to thank him because this was in no way a real compliment. He was preparing her. Every word he said, every move he made, was designed to achieve something in the future.

  She buried her feelings and smiled. “Thanks to you two bad Russians I am forty years distant from my good Czech soul.”

  “You are an American woman now, thanks to us.” Mironov pulled the bottle of white Romanian wine from its ice bucket and filled Elena’s glass. He opened two bottles of beer, one for Sergei and one for himself, and lifted his own bottle. “To America.”

  Both Sergei and Elena repeated, “To America,” and lifted their own drinks.

  Then it was silent in the Bolshoy Ice Dome, a silence Elena did not want to break. Mironov had invited Elena to be part of the VIP delegation to the Olympic Village at Sochi, as an unofficial ambassador of both the United States and the Czech Republic. La Cure Craig had locations in Moscow and St. Petersburg. Why not Sochi?

  Mironov himself seemed to be enjoying the silence and the tension in the room. Finally, he put down his beer and nodded at Sergei.

  “The president and I have been talking about your situation,” said Sergei, reaching into his bag and pulling out a folder. He opened it to a photograph of a young woman in a fur coat. “Alina will accompany the president to some of the events, here in Sochi.”

  Despite all the years this still upset her. “Does Alina know she’s Tony’s daughter?”

  “No. But we think it’s time to tell Anthony about her.”

  “You will tell him ahead of the Olympics.” Mironov pointed his beer bottle at Elena. “So when he sees her with me, here in the stadium, he will know what he owes us. It’s more than money, you see.”

  “Why should I tell him?”

  Sergei leaned forward, with his elbows on his knees. He looked a little uncomfortable. “This lack of discipline, it is both his greatest strength and…well, it frightens us.”

  Mironov cleared his throat and gestured at Sergei to stop talking. “Anthony is an unconventional thinker but in his secret heart he is just a man, a proud man,” said Mironov. “He thinks in any normal way, even if he never speaks of it. Despite his many wonderful flaws, our Anthony Craig is no imbecile. I understand what you are saying, Elena. Maybe we do it all with sugar, not threats. For now, we encourage him to run in 2016. We begin to help, in our way.”

  “How?”

  “Through your marvelous American institutions and inventions. Modern democracy, modern media, modern technology—they are your Trojan horses and we will use them against you.”

  “Tony can’t possibly win an election like that.”

  “He will win,” said Sergei.

  “My parents are in the Cibulka. People outside this room, they know where I come from, they know enough about me to have me arrested for treason. There are ten people in Mladá Boleslav alone…”

  Mironov pulled up one of the soft chairs close to hers. Everything suddenly smelled of new paint and the off-gassing of unwrapped plastic: the wine, her chair, the building, the breath of the president of Russia. His voice was soft. “Every day, someone publishes something about me and my past that could have me thrown in jail for treason. Every day, my Kingfisher. We come from KGB. I was head of the FSB.” He laughed.

  “But what if they have proof, like Jake Haynes did? Proof of what I really did in university, what I was doing in Strasbourg, in Montreal? Tapes?”

  “There is no proof. Even if something remains, it has been manufactured by our powerful enemies. Enemies of the people.” The communist phrase—enemies of the people—popped in her head like an old song. Elena sat back. “This is the way it works in Russia, maybe. It is different in America.”

  Mironov finished his beer and got up to open another one. “You shall see. Now, let us talk about the future. How can we help you help your husband to become the most powerful man in the world?”

  41

  NEW YORK, 2016

  Grace looked out the window of a one-bedroom suite in the Plaza Hotel. It was too dark to enjoy much of the park view.

  Behind her, Roberta McKee sat on the bed.

  “I can see why you’d want to write it.” Roberta poured her half-bottle of mini-bar champagne into a water glass. “You can imagine yourself on CNN, talking to Anderson Cooper. Yes? The tabloid writer turned investigative journalist. But it will never happen.”

  Grace turned away from the window and sat in the cream chair next to the bed. Her hands were still cold and shaking, even though she had run them under hot water for five minutes when she arrived in the suite.

  “If I go to the police—”

  “They will send you away. And I won’t be there to save you next time, in Bryant Park. I won’t be there to save your mother, or your ex-husband. Or your friends in Montreal. I know this must be exciting for you, to have discovered something. Ms. Craig’s generation, they weren’t so careful. They kept records, physical records. Most of it is gone now, as you know. Honestly, Grace, when you go to the precinct they will file you under 9/11 truthers and make fun of you as you leave.”

  “The FBI could bring Ms. Craig in.”

  “Bring her in?” Roberta laughed. “She’d have everyone in the Hoover Building signed up for free spa sessions in an hour. Grace, the FBI can’t do anything for you. Every day, more of the evidence disappears. Those who come forward with stories, like you, will be discredited and disgraced. You’re a paranoid and hysterical woman who was fired from a tabloid.”

  Grace touched her sore ear. She did not trust Roberta but she saw no reason to trust the police or the FBI either. “How do I know you didn’t kill my cat?”

  Roberta shrugged. “You don’t, I guess. But you do know I could have killed you, many times over. You do know I saved your life. Ms. Craig wanted Bradley and me to keep you safe. The last journalist who tried to write this story, things did not work out well for him. Of course, he had documents. Not the garbage you found. But these are different times.
You could put this on Facebook, the files, the Cibulka, what has happened to you. Most people will find it crazy. But some people…”

  Grace had pressed record on her phone app in the car, as Roberta dealt with valet parking. Her initial instinct, after Roberta had shot the men, was to run and keep running to the precinct as planned. But as they passed the carousel, arm-in-arm, Roberta whispering, “Calm, calm, smiling,” she had also said something Grace had not expected: William loved you.

  Although William had been working for Elena, he did not know that Roberta and her partner, Bradley Tebb, were working with Elena. Swallows and ravens answered to one boss, but they did not always agree on methods. They created alliances, and Roberta and Bradley were within Elena’s orbit. She was their mentor.

  Their bosses had wanted to eliminate Grace, once they saw what she had on her computer and on her phone, once they understood whom she had communicated with. Elena had a more elegant solution.

  In the car, Roberta had shown Grace screen captures of texts William had sent Elena. When this was finished, his plan was to take Grace and her mother to England. In the Carnegie Park Suite of the Plaza Hotel, Grace asked to see the screen caps again. “Why didn’t he just tell me?” said Grace, as she read them, as she imagined the life she might have had with him.

  “He was going to tell you today. The same thing I am here to tell you. Only he didn’t get a chance.”

  “But you’re all, ultimately, the Russian secret service.”

  “I am,” said Roberta. “But William wasn’t. He worked for Elena.”

  “You mentioned the bosses. If Elena was William’s boss, who is yours?”

  “That’s irrelevant to you.”

  “Sergei Sorokin?”

  Roberta put down her glass of champagne. “Where did you hear that name?”

  Grace told her about Katka and her father, about the fire in Mladá Boleslav.

  “You don’t have any documentation about him, do you? Any proof?”

  Grace shook her head.

  “Well, now I understand why they wanted you dead.”

  “Who is he?”

  Roberta lifted her hands in surrender.

  “Bryant Park has cameras. They’ll see you shooting those men.”

  “Taken care of.” Roberta paused and took a mouthful of her champagne. “Elena Craig became a swallow when, exactly? The early 1970s? Yet here she is, spitting distance from the White House.”

  “But pundits say he can’t win next week.”

  “I’m sure even Monsieur Craig thinks he’ll lose. But guess what, Grace? He won’t. Did you watch the results of the Brexit vote on the BBC, by chance? The presenters began the evening with absolute confidence, because they all went to fine schools and the only people they know are voting to protect and sustain the status quo. Our people, our secret allies, fine men and women across America, they want to crush and destroy it because there’s nothing to protect. You’ve figured it out too, haven’t you? Was it your ambition, after uni, to work in Canada? For a supermarket tabloid? You’re here to buy stuff, only you can’t afford it and you never will. You’re on social media, aren’t you? For a lot of us there is nothing so exciting as blowing it all up.”

  Grace had not thought of what Steadman Coe called their people, her people, as Roberta McKee’s people.

  “You’re ten years older than me and you have nothing, Grace. No one remembers what you’ve written. You have no money. You own no assets. Your sick mother, nearly blind, lives in squalor. Yet you’ve worked hard. You’ve been obedient. You voted in all the elections, from afar, and you’ve volunteered for charities in two countries. Soon you’ll enter the second half of middle age, filled with anxiety about your legacy, about death, and unless you’re crazy—and you’re not—you will begin to understand that this dream, this lottery ticket in the pocket of every decent American, has been a lie all along. Grace: you never had a chance.”

  Roberta pulled a folder from the satchel next to her on the bed. Before Grace took it from her she knew what it was going to be. On the front of the folder there were photographs of lush gardens, a swimming pool, outdoor patios that resembled five-star resorts.

  “It’s called The Grove.”

  Inside there were glossy leaflets outlining the lifestyle, the health services, and the community. It was in Florida, along the Everglades.

  “There isn’t a better facility in the world. You pay a one-time fee of $250,000, to become a lifetime member, and then $7,000 a month. For that you get the best food, the best medical care, a gorgeous one-bedroom apartment with every amenity imaginable. While nothing can guarantee happiness, in our senior years, this comes pretty damn close, Grace, wouldn’t you say?”

  “It’s very nice.”

  Roberta pulled out another folder. This one was plain white. Grace opened it to see a deposit statement in her name, from something called Zürcher Kantonalbank. The account seemed to have CHF 3,500,000 in it.

  “What is this?”

  “The Swiss franc does a little better than the US dollar, so maybe it’s 3.6 million? You’ll have to pay transfer fees, of course, to convert it to your currency. Unless you want to move to Zurich. Maybe Geneva would be better. It’s a French-speaking town.” She leaned forward and pointed at the Zürcher Kantonalbank logo. “It’s one of the safest banks in the world.”

  Grace looked up at her. “All this for…”

  “That’s the best part. All this for doing nothing. Congratulations, Grace. You’ve bested us. We tried to stop you and we couldn’t. And here you are, receiving your reward.”

  “And they’ll stop trying to kill me?”

  “Ms. Craig has influence with the bosses. She’ll convince them you have more than we think, that you’ve squirreled it away somewhere, that your death will trigger its release.”

  Grace looked at the number, at the zeroes, and imagined what she might do with it all: buy a condo in Miami South Beach, close enough to visit her mother but far enough to keep it to a weekly commitment. She could travel to all those places she had never been: France, Kenya, Thailand, Argentina. She could engage in meaningful journalism to assuage her guilt for taking this money.

  “And if I don’t take it? If I go to the FBI?”

  “The Craigs will sue you. They’re really, really good at that, and they have endless resources.” Roberta stood up off the bed and stretched. “You’ll go to sleep every night worrying about that phone call at 3:00 a.m., about your dear mother: a fall, a mix-up with her insulin injections, a coma. What will it be like for you on public transportation, in restaurants—if you can afford them—or even passing regular-looking people on the street? Who are these people, really, and what might they do to you?”

  Grace shook her head. “It must feel terrible, to threaten people with violence and death.”

  “Tonight I’m here to make you a rich woman, a free woman, to give your darling mother a life of dignity and health and joy. Your own government cannot protect you. I can. This gives me enormous pleasure.”

  “You can’t quit either, can you? They own you like they own Elena.” Grace looked at the pictures of The Grove.

  “My parents live well. I live well. This is a choice I have made, even if it’s a life I did not seek.”

  “You were recruited, like Elena.”

  Roberta reached into Grace’s purse and took her phone and her notebook. “This is how we knew where you were, by the way. These lovely phones, your credit card.” With her other hand she grabbed William’s bag.

  “Hey!”

  “A deal’s a deal, Grace. Get yourself some new tech. Everything you need, to access the money, is in that folder. And tomorrow you’ll receive an email confirmation about your mother’s place in The Grove. It’s hers as of Monday. Why not fly first-class to Miami and surprise her?”

  “Where are you going?”

  At the door Roberta stopped. “This is your room. It’s much lovelier than the Holiday Inn Express, and befitting of your new stat
ion.” She winked. “Sorry to drink your champagne. Order yourself another one if you like, on us.”

  42

  NOVYY RIM, RUSSIA, 2016

  Sergei Sorokin’s driver had a hangover. Most of the city seemed to have a hangover, Sergei thought, as the morning traffic on the Rublevo-Uspenskoe Highway was light in both directions. The flying eagle of the Craig logo on the steering wheel pleased him so much that he moved to the right side of the back seat so he might see it better as they made their way west of Moscow. Most senior government officials rode in Craigs. When the car was first launched, people made fun of the Craig Ne Plus Ultra for having the worst name in automotive history, yet now it was a global bestseller. It was the largest, least fuel-efficient, and most opulent American car, and it was the first to be bulletproof. At just $145,000 it was cheaper than buying a less luxurious Mercedes and fitting it with aftermarket glass and Kevlar, steel plates, and ballistic nylon in the body.

  At his early morning breakfast, in a quiet café next to a massive tavern, crews had not yet cleaned the bottles, cans, vomit, and other detritus of late-late-late-night partying. After so many years of Russophobia, the new president-elect of the United States of America was considered a friend of the Kremlin.

  Mironov’s president.

  At seventy-one and irredeemably fat, grotesquely rich, and something like happy, Sergei considered what he was leaving behind. President-elect Anthony Craig was his legacy, but if it coincided with the Russian renaissance he had so longed for, a growing part of him wanted his grandchildren to understand and celebrate his role in it. He imagined a modest statue of himself at the Park Ville gate, in Rublyovka, five minutes from his home. Too many of the young oligarchs he helped make and mentor had abandoned their mansions in Rublyovka.

  Today represented the day they began returning home, with their ambitions and their capital. A woman from the best flower shop in Moscow had met him at the café, and the bouquet smelled enchanting in the back seat. On his way home from this meeting Sergei would stop at the perfume stand in GUM and buy his new wife Svetlana a gift. He liked to buy Chamade, a Guerlain fragrance named for the drumbeat of Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow.